


Climbing Ladders

by tofansesmuna



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Office, Executive, Flashbacks, Human squip, M/M, Secretary - Freeform, personal assistant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofansesmuna/pseuds/tofansesmuna
Summary: A short buzz filled the air before a tinny voice broke it. “Yes, Mr. Bellamy?” His secretary asked. He didn’t bother learning her name. He probably should. “Please find a service agency and schedule interviews on Thursday from 3:00 to 4:00. Promising ones.” The voice didn’t reply for a moment. He was about to repeat himself, when the voice suddenly intruded again, “For what position, sir?” Francis sighed in frustration.He turned his chair slightly and looked out onto the streets below before answering, “A personal assistant.”Francis is constantly running the perpetual race for success. But that doesn’t mean he can’t find time for his own amusement. A new assistant inspires him to begin a side project of sorts. Reconstructing a person, through conditioning, careful orchestration, and questionable methods, most likely isn’t in the best interest of the subject. But at least it’s something to do.





	Climbing Ladders

“Jesus Christ, do I have to do everything myself?” He made sure to slam his desk drawer loud enough to make the intern in front of him flinch. The intern (he hadn’t the faintest idea of his name) stood rather than sit. Francis didn’t want him sitting. They didn’t occupy the same level. Ideally he would have preferred to have him kneeling on the ground, but for the sake of social norms he would accept boiling the boy alive with an unsettling upward gaze. From the humiliated flush of his face, Francis would say it was working. 

He sighed, a disappointed and put upon sound, and continued to fiddle with the sleek pen in his hands as he spoke. “How many times has this happened, hm?” He kept talking. He did not want an answer. “You have failed, repeatedly, to accomplish the actual job you’ve been hired for. The only purpose you have in this company, the only thing you have to do to get paid, and you can’t do it. What happened this past Tuesday?” He waited. He did want an answer. 

The boy remained silent, until he gathered that Francis was waiting for a response. In a small, grating voice, he replied, “I forgot to pick up your laundry, Sir.” Francis nodded patiently, as if attempting to understand. “That’s right, isn’t it? And can you jog my memory as to why I was late to my conference last week?” 

By now, the boy was visibly shiny and a much more solid shade of red. Francis revelled in the bob of his adam’s apple and the tiny sound not unlike a drowning man being shoved further under the surface. The intern then opened his mouth and answered with a bit more hesitance, “Because I forgot to remind you that morning. And I didn’t call you until an hour before.” Francis nodded again. 

“Thank you. I knew it was something along the lines of you not doing your job correctly, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember. That must be something we both have trouble with: remembering. Mostly you, though. After all, my job isn’t to remember. My job is to be clever. People like you have the job of remembering for the clever people, so the clever people can do important things.” The boy, who had been trying very hard to keep a neutral expression, was now glaring at the window behind Francis’s head. Francis smirked. He began in an almost conversational manner, “But wouldn’t it be so sad,” he leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk, maintaining eye contact with the boy, “if the person who wasn’t clever enough to do things himself, and had to survive on the run off of a clever person, wouldn’t it be unfortunate if the person couldn’t even do that right?” Francis grew quieter by the end, and allowed his question to trail off at a softness just below normal speaking level. It lilted up on the last word; part genuine and part mocking, but sure as all hell to stick either way. 

The boy’s eyes watered and would turn into fully formed tears the moment he blinked. Francis knew he was waiting desperately to be excused, so he could turn away and cry without letting him see. Which is exactly why he waited. He pursed his lips in a smile and raised his brows in a coaxing expression, as if he were just giving the intern time to finish a thought. Even though the boy hadn’t looked at him in the past two minutes, he continued to stare full force. He knew he could feel it. Finally, red eyed and bloated, the intern blinked rapidly and stripes of water rolled down his face. Francis leaned back in his chair and sighed. He picked up as if he had never stopped speaking. “So what I suppose I mean to say is, your time here with us is finished. Collect your items and leave the premises in the next hour. Of course, take the opportunity to say your goodbyes to your coworkers.” 

His lip twitched. He pushed back the threatening grin. The intern, with his eyes downcast, face red and moist, and with a glistening hint of snot about to drip from his nose, nodded jerkily. Francis allowed a congenial smile to slide onto his face. “Alright, then. That’s all. You’re dismissed.” 

The former intern turned without a word and shuffled out of the office. When the door shut, Francis’s eyes fluttered closed as he took a slow, relished breathe through his nose. The contained curve of his lips split to manic proportions in time with the inhale. He leaned his head back over the chair and pushed himself away from the desk. With his eyes still closed, he turned his chair until he faced the glass wall lining two sides of his office. As he exhaled, his eyes opened again, this time settling in satisfied slits. He looked out over the city, and felt his smile shrink to a less offputting size. Something more content. Contentment was not something Francis Bellamy felt very often, so he decided to take a few minutes to enjoy it. He took another deep breathe and let it out. 

It really was regrettable that they kept assigning him these newborn interns. While he couldn’t care less that managing his schedule and picking up his dry cleaning wouldn’t prepare the little dreamers for the jobs they aspired towards, it was tedious to give the same speech and directions over and over again. Besides that, it must be waste of resources, what with him firing most of them after a month. It didn’t seem a valuable use of anyone’s time, but he knew the reason for it. 

Francis had climbed the ranks quickly and ruthlessly, but seniority and favorability still played a heavy role in accommodations. Call it a symbol of loyalty to keep steady executives happy, as well as an incentive for the younger ones to work their asses off until they held the same positions. A philosophy he despised, but never outwardly challenged. Only now, it was obvious that the process was having an influence on his ability to do his job. And as much as he loved picking at wide-eyed greenies until they were rocking back and forth in the corner, he would much rather have someone who could actually do what he said. Properly. He was not smiling anymore. 

Instead he pursed his lips, and turned his chair back around. He reached across to the intercom and pressed the button. A short buzz filled the air before a tinny voice broke it. “Yes, Mr. Bellamy?” His secretary asked. He didn’t bother learning her name. He probably should. “Please find a service agency and schedule interviews on Thursday from 3:00 to 4:00. Promising ones.” The voice didn’t reply for a moment. He was about to repeat himself, when the voice suddenly intruded again, “For what position, sir?” Francis sighed in frustration. He turned his chair slightly and looked out onto the streets below before answering, “A personal assistant.” 

 

Thursday came with a metric ton of appointments that his beautiful, lovely, incompetent secretary had failed to mention when he first told her to schedule interviews during the hour he was supposed to be downtown closing a deal. As a result, he had to push all of the interviews to 8 am Friday. So Francis walked into the office at 7:30 feeling fresh, light, and ready to kill someone. 

With only half an hour until the waiting room outside his office was filled with bright-eyed and bushy tailed candidates, he opted to simply sit and sip his coffee in silence. It seemed far too soon when his secretary knocked on the door to let in the first one. 

A stout young man with a shock of washed out red hair sat down in the less comfortable chair across from him. He gave a greeting as he entered, but Francis paid no attention. “Name?” He demanded without looking up. 

“Oh, Mark Lisanski.” Said the young man. 

“Previous experience?” 

“I’ve worked for two executives from Lincoln Financial. They lasted five months and a year, respectively.” 

“Hmm,” Francis twiddled the pen in his hand. He still hadn’t looked up. “Any idea as to why you were relieved of your position?” He heard the young man gulp. Francis’s eye twitched. Nervous could be entertaining, but right now it only irritated him. The young man hesitated before answering, “I ended the one year engagement myself. So I could focus on school.” 

“And your first job?” The young man paused again. Francis had to stop himself from crumpling up his resumé. 

“I believe...it was just a matter of incompatibility. Our working styles didn’t line up.  
Neither of us was a bad worker, but our methods were so different that we prevented ourselves from performing our duties to their full potential.” Francis nodded and scribbled a note on the application. 

“Alright,” he looked up for the first time and granted a tight smile. “Thank you. Goodbye.” The young man looked confused, but began to rise from the seat. “Oh, okay. Thank you. Should I wait for you to call, or -”

“Yes.” Francis looked back down at the sheet to indicate he was finished with him. As the door closed, he took his pen and dragged it in a dark ‘X’ from corner to corner. The boy had set himself up for failure. Francis did not want someone with a unique working style. He wanted someone who would change anything; someone who could mold themselves around him so that everything they did was a perfect complement to himself. Not only that, but that little bit about quitting for school: utterly undesirable. He needed a person who would drop everything in order to do his job, even at the risk of other parts of his life. Either that, or someone so good that they made it appear as though every second was committed to him. What was the point of a subordinate who couldn’t adapt? Who had competing aspirations? Useless. 

The next candidate was a woman in her thirties. Not exactly professional, but not exactly trashy. Her hair was damaged and outdated, her clothes the same. She had rough hands and the sturdy face of a person well accustomed to work. Francis might have considered her if he didn’t find her insufferable to talk to. The following interviews contained few variations. No one particularly noteworthy or advantageous entered his office, and he could tell after about thirty seconds of interaction. He went through people so fast that soon there was only one candidate left, as his secretary helpfully informed him. “Last one, Mr. B,” she chimed as she opened the door. He despised that name. He would certainly have to give her a lecture later. But appearing ruffled by something so trivial wouldn’t do, even in front of inconsequential people. 

The young man who entered was about a foot taller than the girl who held open the door for him but walked with his shoulders caved in, like he was worried of offending someone just by being slightly noticeable. He wore a light blue button up tucked into too-short slacks. Cheap looking; most likely from an outlet store. Unlike many of the youthful faces from the past hour, his sleeves were buttoned at the wrist rather than rolled up, and his shirt was buttoned up to the top. Under the ill fitting pants peeked high black socks, which covered knobby looking ankles. Overall, the ensemble made Francis want to grimace. He settled for looking down at the application sheet. 

The boy waited by the chair for a moment, but seeing that Francis’s face remained pointed down, stepped forward and took a seat. Good, he thought. “Name?” Out of his peripheral, he saw the boy straighten up in his seat. A fluttery voice answered, “Jeremy Heere.” Francis paused.

“Jeremy…” 

“Heere.” Francis felt his eye twitch.

“Yes, I know you’re here -”

“N-no, um, Heere. My name is Jeremy Heere. H-E-E-R-E.” Francis’s grip on the pen increased. This boy had the stammer and nasal suffocation of every cartoon poindexter in existence. He hadn’t examined his face, but he might just suffer a heart attack if he didn’t find a greasy face covered by glasses and a poorly managed bowl cut. Aside from that, there was the obvious red flag, he thought as he lowered a stiff hand to scratch the boy’s name down on paper. He did not appreciate interruptions. 

“Previous experience?” He ground out. A nervous chuckle answered him. The boy fiddled with his hands as he followed with, “Uh, heh, I guess my life?” Francis clenched his teeth. He reminded himself that this was the last option, and took a deep breathe before saying just a bit too politely, “Explain, please?” 

“Well, um, I don’t have formal experience as a personal assistant. But over the years, I’ve just...developed really strong organizational skills, and well, I mean...I’m good at organizing! I haven’t pursued it in a job before, but I’m good at management and...I don’t want to say strategy? But finding solutions. Logistics! Yeah.” Francis stopped the boy’s rambling with a raised hand. 

He did not look up as he said, “Thank you. We’re done here.” Sweet silence. Francis breathed it in momentarily before he realized that the boy was still sitting in front of him. He slowly turned his head to look up. The boy, Jeremy, was looking at him with a strange mix of sadness and determination. Francis raised an eyebrow and nodded his chin at the door. Shoo. But instead of taking the hint, Jeremy sighed and lowered his eyes. “Sir,” he began, “I don’t want to come across as rude, and it’ll probably hurt my chances even more, but,” he raised his eyes again and stared straight at Francis, “I don’t think the qualifications really do me justice, and I’d just really like it if you gave me a shot.” He finished with a note of finality, proud and bold. 

Francis blinked at him, completely unimpressed. He did, however, take the opportunity to look at the boy’s face for the first time. Pale as a sheet, and possessed a weak chin, but far from the cringing, grease-slathered rat he’d expected. He had brown hair, bordering on red, that fell in waves around his hairline. His eyes were large, almost off puttingly so, and an enthralling shade of frost covered sea glass. Not hideous to look at. Alright, he’d indulge. 

He leaned back in his chair and ignored the application sheet in favor of making direct eye contact. “Well, then, Mr. Heere,” he smiled brightly. “What would you do if I had a 11 am meeting downtown, and for some reason they were making me wait. At that moment, I receive a call saying a client I had been vying for wants to meet right then. At my office, across town. Then let’s say at 11:30 my secretary accidentally schedules a meeting with my superior - believe me, it happens often - but I have to be at the airport by 12:45. What would the ‘logistics,’ as you put it, look like?” 

Jeremy purses his lips and looks at the pen holder on his desk for about three seconds. “How important is the company that’s making you wait?” He blurts out. Francis’s smile curled as he clasped his hands and sank his head to rest on top of them. “Very,” he hummed. 

Jeremy nodded slowly, then looked at the wall behind Francis’s head as he said, “I would call the office you’re waiting at to reschedule for a later time. Even a video call on the plane if that’s possible. I’d pick you up and drive you back here - I know a shortcut that would take 10 minutes, tops - and keep the time for the meeting with your boss. If the client you wanted showed interest, then you could just go over the basics in those 20 minutes and set plans for what to talk about at your next meeting. While you’re in your 11:30, I rush to your house and, assuming you’re already packed, grab your bags and hightail it back here. If you’re not packed, I grab two days worth of business wear, a party outfit, and two pairs of pajamas. I don’t know where your house is, but if it’s close enough I’d grab lunch along the way, cus, you know, plane food. If there’s not enough time, I’d just send you a list of good looking restaurants wherever you’re going. Get here, pick you up, speed to the airport - much faster if you take the freeway - and drop you off. Wait there until you tell me you’re on the plane, just in case something goes wrong and you need a ride.” He shut his mouth immediately, as if he just realized how long he’d been talking. 

Francis’s face had gone slack. How the hell, how the actual fuck could this stuttering, limp- dicked little parasite have managed to get that many words out without fumbling? Not just that, but it made sense! It was a justifiable, logical solution, and Francis didn’t know what the fuck he had expected. Very quickly, he recovered his facial faculties and snapped to an indifferent slate. “Um,” interjected Jeremy, “I think that’s it. Did I forget anything?” Francis sighed. 

With a begrudging nod of his head, he said, “An adequate diagnosis, but far from perfect. That will do, Mr. Heere,” Jeremy’s shoulders sank. “For now.” The young man’s head jolted up again to look at him with wide eyes. Francis held out the application sheet in a disinterested manner. “Leave your name, email address, and phone number. You’ll be contacted tomorrow so you can get started as soon as possible.” The boy in front of him nodded through his entire statement. He continued to nod as he rose from the chair. “Yes, Sir, Mr. Bellamy! I promise you, I’ll give my absolute best.” He turned and started for the door. 

Francis felt that annoyed twinge in his head again, but he tamped it down to call sweetly, “Jeremy?” The boy turned instantly. He didn’t reply, but his face was open and waiting. Better, he thought. 

“I wanted to let you know,” he gave a wide, kind smile, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about ‘your best.’ I don’t care if you don’t break even a sweat, or if you only get two hours of sleep a night. Don’t give me your best. Do your job,” he lowered his voice a little, and nodded along. Like he was talking to a child, “and do it right.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m excited for this one! If you have comments, then please....comment.


End file.
